


Winter months

by PrincessAugustina



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mention of abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, Vague, and wannabe poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 04:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13849704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessAugustina/pseuds/PrincessAugustina
Summary: This isn't how it starts. This is never how it starts. But this isn't how it ends either.





	Winter months

 

* * *

This isn’t how it starts. It starts with sweet touches and kisses. During the dusky afternoon hours in November he lowers me into my bed and undresses me. Before every button and every zip, he looks into my eyes and waits. The half darkness of those hours is filled with sweetness and tenderness. He touches my neck as if he might break it. His fingers left cracks on my skin. I was afraid that a simple touch might shatter me into pieces.

* * *

 

This isn’t how it starts. It starts with unanswered phone calls in December. Late night texts became our form of courtship. There were no roses left on my doorstep but he left blooming bouquet of violet, red and blue flowers on my hips. He never gave me jewellery but gifted me a string of dark pearls that I wore around my neck. I left his lips stained more often than not. Ruby red, venetian red, pomegranate red. Blood red. The sweetly metallic taste of blood stayed with me for hours.

* * *

 

This isn’t how it starts. It starts with urgent declarations and thinly veiled threats. January was filled with demanding kisses and whispered promises. He leaves in the early hours of the morning and the winter chill finds it’s way under my covers. In the morning I wake with goose bumps on my body and see the ice flowers on my window. Maybe he was my salvation. Maybe I was there to save him.

* * *

 

This isn’t how it ends. This is never how it ends. During the cold sunlight of February, he gives me his last present. With the arrival of spring my flowers grow and so does my strength. And with the summer sun putting back colour into my cheeks the winter leaves my eyes and his pearls fade away. But as August turns into September I see him across the street smiling a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. This isn’t how it ends. This never ends.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just working though some stuff, so my to go method is writing vague and wannabe poetic sentences that I then desperately try to connect and fit into some sort of fandom. Sometimes it works better.


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